


The Only Rose

by Crux01



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Love, Romantic Angst, Sad, Separation Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6986023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crux01/pseuds/Crux01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Some of the most beautiful things worth having in your life come wrapped in a crown of thorns.” Shannon L. Alder</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fragile Flower

**Author's Note:**

> For all my friends at wthomeland the best HL blog on the planet!
> 
>  
> 
> "For I would cross the ocean wide  
> I'd walk the mighty foam  
> If I could lie in your arms tonight  
> You're the only rose I know"  
> R MacDonald & C MacDonald - The Only Rose

Year 1

The first one came on her second birthday after the disaster that happened in Berlin; that shit storm that led directly to her finally and irrevocably telling Saul to stuff the CIA where the sun don't shine.

It was a single red rose. The perfectly sculptured petals cuddled into each other lovingly, the deeply sensuous colour of blood on a strong, and lush green stem liberally protected by a number of dagger-sharp thorns. It was delivered to the During Foundation HQ in Berlin mid-way through the warm April morning. 

Klaus, the postman brought it up, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief beneath his untidy forest of silver grey hair. He hurried towards her with the shambling gait of a man whose legs never quite carried out the instructions his brain sent them. He had the bemused smile of one used to being in good physical shape but now continually surprised by the loss of his fitness as the ravages of time stole his youth and vitality.

"Better hide this from your lawyer boyfriend," he said. "You obviously have a secret admirer!"

Carrie smiled. "How do you know it's not from Jonas?" she asked. Klaus gave her a sceptical look as she took the bloom from him. Carefully taking it from its sleek plastic tube, she breathed deeply of its overpoweringly decadent scent, so strong, rich, and complex, with notes of blackberry, blueberry and damson plum.

Klaus rolled his eyebrows knowingly. "No card attached," he said. Rumour had it he had spent his formative years in London playing for a well-known football team. Whatever he had done he had acquired a very good grasp of the English language along with a pair of decrepit knees. "Significant others always put their name to such a gesture, they want to get the kudos that goes with it. No one owning up means there's a secret here! So, a pretty lady like you, there must be a list of possibles, let's have it!"

Carrie laughed. Indeed, there was no note attached. "That's for me to know and you to find out," she teased but in her heart she knew Jonas lacked the imagination to send her such a gift. Maybe if someone gave him the idea he would have gone along with it early in their relationship when it still contained a hint of excitement and freshness but that had long since seeped away to leave only tedious routine acceptance. Carrie had come to see that Jonas only ever reacted to stimuli, maybe it was his legal training, but he never ever came up with impulsive innovative action of his own volition.

"The red rose speaks of love that awaits a passionate expression." Klaus mused cryptically. "I love a good mystery. I'm been doing this job for twenty years, I see plenty of things that prick my curiosity. Helps get me through the day!" His smile broadened, there was no doubt he would have been an attractive man in his youth. "I have my ways. I will find out!"

"Do your worst!" Carrie laughed to hide the sudden melancholy shiver that chilled her to the very marrow of her bones.

Jonas took her out that night for an expensive meal and numerous bottles of chilled Riesling had flowed with a bottomless regularity to accompany the food. She had drunk more than she should, finding an escape into the pleasant numbness, smiling inanely at Jonas and his feeble attempts to entertain her, ignoring the judgemental way his eyebrows creased when she ordered another bottle. She had forgotten all about the rose as the alcohol anaesthetised her pain. 

The following day, Jonas pulled a miffed face as he approached her desk. He had just escaped an emotionally charged meeting with a particularly challenging client, the type that he detested with the little passion that was in his soul, and was feeling fragile and drained.

"What's that?" he asked, suspicious as only a lawyer can be.

Carrie lifted her gaze away from the screen, where she had been trying, and failing, to get her slightly hungover eyes to read a tedious security report. "What?" 

"That rose."

"Oh that, I thought it was from you, for my birthday!" she said sweetly.

"Me?"

Jonas was nowhere near accomplished at keeping a hold of his feelings, and the emotions rolled openly across his bland features; jealousy, anger, guilt as he stared at her. "Not me," he said finally. He picked the rose up, as his face finally settled on curiosity. "Scheisse!" he swore as the thorns on the stem, drew blood.

"Careful!" Carrie couldn't stop herself from muttering, even though the warning was far too late. A single drop of warm blood landed on the stark white paper on her desk. They both stared at it, searching for something meaningful to say. It had been that way for a long time.

Eventually Jonas somewhat tentatively offered, "Jesus, it's dangerous, Carrie! You should get rid of it!"

"No way," she retorted. "It's beautiful. Only you could be scared of a cut flower!" 

She kept it on her desk, proudly displayed for two weeks until the petals darkened to almost black and began to smoothly fall blanketing the papers on her desk beneath in a deep scarlet shroud. She thought nothing of it until her birthday the next year when a similar bloom arrived.

 

Year 2

Klaus was equally inquisitive but Carrie threw him off the scent by saying as she saw him stalking up to her desk, with his package in hand powered by stiff knees and curiosity. "Oh Jonas has sent me one this year again. How lovely!"

Klaus muttered disbelievingly but said nothing more.

Mesmerised by the beautiful vermillion perfection of the bloom before her, she googled 'red rose' and pulled her eyes from the bloom to read: 'Words or pictures have never fully encompassed the sheer beauty and grandeur of the red rose. The red rose is undeniably the most beautiful among all the roses, full blooded and rich. The incredibly beautiful Cleopatra used the red rose to carpet her bedroom when she received Antony. All roses convey warmth, affection and love in varying degrees. But the red rose, being the queen of roses, is the most popular and beloved of all. The red rose, especially, a single red rose simply expresses, "I love you very deeply". Bright red roses are interpreted as the ultimate expression of romantic and abiding love. Their bright red shade expresses these emotions perfectly.'

Nothing new there. She sat staring at the blood red bloom for a long time and wondered. She had a limited circle of friends, mostly they were Jonas' that had adopted her. Work was good. She made lots of contacts, worked well with many people but she didn't think she had made an impression on any of them that would justify a red rose for two consecutive birthdays. Very few people even knew when her birthday was.

Having immediately ruled out Jonas, her mind set about who could be sending them to her. Maybe it was Otto, after all he could look her birthday up in her personal file. After the clusterfuck, when she and Jonas had got back together, with great make-up sex and the somewhat bizarre exchange of a hoody, Otto had behaved very strangely. He had invited her to his cabin by the lake, asked her to become his partner and looked thoroughly pissed when she had explained that her and Jonas were back together as an item. Since then he had treated her with professional respect, even given her her old job back when she had begged for it but kept his distance in every other way and she thought she detected a tinge of disappointment dulling his gaze whenever his eye fell upon her. Could it be him, trying to restate a claim on her affections? Surely it was too subtle. He was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, he would approach her direct at the very least.

She breathed in the scent of the flower, the same as last year's she recalled, dark, strong and volatile. Who else could it be? Surely not Saul. Their relationship had never been about flowers and they had not spoken for over two years. After Berlin Saul had acted like a spoilt schoolboy taking his toys back to Langley to play with them alone. Carrie had been relieved by his hasty retreat and determined that she would never speak to her old mentor again.

Which, in her life of few real friends, left only one possibility and that was even more unrealistic than all the others put together.... Peter Quinn.

When she settled for Jonas, she had made a solemn vow to herself in this respect also; that she would not think about Quinn. The scars went too deep and she knew they would never heal, so she had purposely removed him from her mind, simply ignoring it all, pushing it away behind the strong damn she determinedly erected in her head. But now she had unlocked the gates, and memories raw and unforgiving, threatened to flood back.

She dropped the rose instantly as if letting go would stop the building torrent. "Shit!" She hissed and grabbed it again but only to throw it into the nearest bin. She didn't want anything from him. Nothing that would remind her that she had failed, that she had settled for second best with Jonas. She did not want to be reminded that she had let Quinn walk out of her life again because she, the great Carrie Mathison was afraid. Afraid of what he offered, afraid of the commitment, afraid of the depths of his love for her. He had scared her so much....

No, she wasn't even going to think about that and never admit it, even to herself. She had things to do, important meetings to attend, she didn't have time for this nonsense. She didn't even know it was from Quinn. Why would it be? Why would he even remember her? A rose on her birthday? Surely not! Peter Quinn would have scoffed at the sheer absurdity of it, there wasn't even one romantic bone in his body.

She stopped the thoughts, refused to let her mind see the most frightening one that hovered at the edge of her consciousness; the memories of what he had suffered to keep her safe; being prepared to die for somebody was about as fucking romantic as you could get.

She snorted, grabbed her iPad and hurried to the next meeting, leaving the rose in the trash where it belonged.

 

Year 3

The third year Carrie just happened to be down in reception when the rose was delivered. She had contrived to sit with her iPad in the comfy leather chairs normally reserved for visitors to the During Foundation HQ, muttering something about wi-fi reception on her way past Klaus. He rolled his eyes but said nothing. 

Pumped and excited, she stared surreptitiously over her iPad at everybody who entered the area. At about ten thirty a pimply boy dressed in teenage angst who looked about the same age as Frannie, entered, a plastic tube encircled by a red ribbon under his arm. He sauntered to the desk very slowly as all of his energy appeared to be being channelled to his jaw muscles to enthusiastically masticate the chewing gum in his sneering mouth. His ears were firmly attached to a pair of the most expensive Beats headphones, which made Carrie briefly consider how lucrative a career as a flower delivery boy could possibly be.

It didn't take any CIA training to know that this was what Carrie was waiting for and it was confirmed when Klaus' eyes drifted towards her as he accepted the package. The boy sniffed, continued to chew and slouched around to be instantly challenged by a wild eyed blonde woman, blocking his exit menacingly.

"Who sent that?" Carrie demanded.

The boy tensed. "Was?" His voice was loud to compensate for the raging bass beat vibrating through his head.

"Damn it!" Carrie cursed. She reached out and grabbed hold of the boy's skinny arm. "Who sent it?"

Pulled out of his safe world by a frenzied American woman screeching at him, the boy reacted as only he could; he stopped chewing and pulled his phones down to his neck. A shiver of disquiet flashed across his face as his eyes came to rest on Carrie's hand, tightening painfully around his upper arm.

"Was?" he repeated.

"Carrie, enough!" Klaus, still holding the article in question, had come around the desk. He spoke to the boy in German. Carrie was too hyped to bother to translate what was said but she removed her restraining hand. The boy's general demeanour reverted from discomfort back to slovenly confidence as he shrugged and answered the questions in monosyllabic grunts.

Finally, Klaus signalled the interview was over. Throwing one last look at Carrie and muttering, "Crazy lady," under his breath, the kid replaced his headphones, started chewing again and hurriedly left the building.

Klaus eyed Carrie. "So it's not Jonas?" he asked finally.

Carrie gulped. She nodded toward the door where the boy had left. "What did he say?"

"Not much. But then you knew he wouldn't know anything didn't you? He's just a delivery boy, gets the flowers and a sheet of addresses from the shop." He eyed her. "You were hoping for somebody else, the sender perhaps?"

Carrie looked away from his twinkling eyes. "I just want to know who is sending them that's all."

"I think you have someone in mind," Klaus responded.

"No," Carrie looked back, holding his stare with complete candour. Hiding the truth still came so easy for her. "No, I have no idea. You're the one who’s supposed to be investigating it."

Klaus looked unconvinced but finally he nodded. "OK. As I said before, I have contacts let me do some digging."

Carrie drew in a long breath. "All right," she finally agreed. "If you want to and have the time."

Klaus smiled. "I love a mystery and I have all the time in the world."

She matched his smile and turned to retrieve her iPad. "What shop was he from?" She asked on her way past the front desk to the elevator.

"Going to make some enquiries of your own?"

Carrie shrugged. "Why not?"

"Frau Rose Floristik on Stargarder Strasse."

They both made their own separate enquiries, pulling in all the contacts they could think of, which between the pair of them was not an insignificant amount, although Carrie's were obviously not as many as they would have been in her CIA days. But neither came up with any information that would help to find the identity of the rose sender. The complete roadblock that they hit made Carrie more sure than before that it was Peter Quinn. She knew the Black Ops specialist would not be found until he wanted to be.

And so she resolved to wait until that time came.

 

Year 4

The next year brought big changes to Carrie's life. Jonas accepted a job with the UN in New York City. In two minds about the whole thing - happy to be returning to her own country and to be nearer to Maggie and the rest of the family, Carrie didn't want to give up her job at the During Foundation or the friends she had made there but she eventually acquiesced to Jonas' wishes. He was uncharacteristically excited by his new job and Carrie felt a tinge of guilt that she wasn't thrilled by it or by anything the lawyer did anymore.

Existing on only one salary, money was tight and they moved into a small apartment in one of the least expensive parts of town. For the first few weeks Carrie busied herself with settling into the new family home. Frannie took the change of environment and schools in her stride as a happy well-adjusted and supported child can. Jonas loved the new job and felt he was making a real positive difference to the world. It was only Carrie with time on her hands and a mind that sought to over complicate things that floundered. Half-heartedly she looked for a job but could find nothing that suited her particular skill set. She thought about calling Saul but quickly dismissed the idea, telling herself she could cope until something turned up.

She found herself desperately looking forward to her birthday. Not just because it would be the first one in years that she was able to spend with her sister and her family but because she wanted to know if a rose would appear. Part of her reasoned there was no way her benefactor could know she had moved halfway around the world. She would end up phoning Klaus in Berlin and asking him to send it on but the rest of her believed that Peter Quinn would have access to the information. He would find out where she was and this would be further proof that she was right; it really was him sending the flowers.

Her birthday was a warm spring day, the cherry trees in the street laden down with pink blossom gently swayed in the light breeze as Carrie took Frannie to school as usual. She picked up a take-out coffee on the way home, acknowledging but rejecting the welcoming smiles of other moms who implored her to sit and talk with them. Some mornings she did stay but it was always a struggle to find something to say in their sweet, mundane conversations. She made her way back home.

A lovingly handmade birthday card from Frannie had pride of place above the fire place and next to it a gushing but somehow irrelevant one from Jonas. Carrie hovered, sipping her coffee, wondering what she should do. A pile of ironing stacked in the hallway screamed to her and was that a cobweb dangling in the bright sunlight above the door? Jesus what would her colleagues in the Agency say if they could see domesticated Carrie? Jesus what would she have said if she could have seen this future for herself five years ago? Would she have made different choices?

Choices. A nagging memory at the edge of her mind tried to force its way into her consciousness. Annoyed, she pushed it away. She did not want to remember that particular poignant scene from her past.

The doorbell chimed into her reverie and she jumped, almost dropping the coffee. Her hands trembling, she put it down, rushed to the door.

It was an older man standing there. He smelt of sweat and tobacco and his scowl was as bitter as cold coffee. His nicotine-stained fingers threw the plastic tube at her and thrust a docket under her nose. "Sign," he demanded in a nasal whine.

Carrie's heart leaped and wordlessly she compiled. Swiftly signing, muttering her thanks to the man who had already gone and closed the door. Her legs wobbled alarmingly and she felt herself sliding down the door to sit, legs splayed out before her on the polished wooden floor, the tube containing the single red rose clutched lovingly to her chest, in her desperate mind the evidence was if not overwhelming, at least sufficient.

"Peter Quinn," she whispered. "You goddamn reliable motherfucker!"

He had made his feelings about her perfectly clear when he stormed out of the hospital, she was constantly shutting down the memory of that moment as it was always flitting on the edge of her mind. It had been there again only minutes earlier. So why the hell was he sending her red roses on her birthday?

 

Year 5

The next year Carrie spent most of the morning of her birthday with her head thrust firmly in the toilet bowl as morning sickness kicked in with a vengeance. They called her a geriatric mom at ante natal appointments and worse than that she felt fucking prehistoric as the hormones in her body went into overdrive. She wasn't drinking. Her meds were being closely monitored. She was trying to be the prefect mother and nature rewarded her with the most horrendously ejecting stomach in the history of man. She threw up when she smelt any strong scents. She threw up when she walked further than a few yards. She threw up when any morsel of food passed her lips. She even threw up when she sat quietly watching TV. She was beginning to believe that she must be allergic to the little being growing inside her belly.

She had resolved to make the best of her lot. Frannie was happy. Jonas was happy, over the moon in fact with the pregnancy. Wouldn't she just be being selfish to let her true feelings be known? The isolation and loneliness she felt. She was a strong woman, she could make do, find the best bits in her life and nourish them. Push aside the longing in her heart for something more. Forget the life she once had, consign it behind the walls she had built in her mind, pretend it had all happened to someone else. She could be the person everyone else wanted her to be. 

It was just so goddamn hard!

And in this frame of mind, against her better judgement and the nightmare memories of the time after Frannie was born, she had agreed to try for another child. Hell, she had no proper job, she had no real purpose anymore, another child would give her something to focus on, something to believe in..... the trite misogynistic rationality of Jonas' saccharine reasoning now made her head hurt as much as the skin at the back of her throat, bleached and burnt by the stomach acid that constantly passed by. But at the time she had accepted it. What else did she have?

So that had been the plan. It wasn't one of her best but then she was out of practice. Why was it so difficult to be what they wanted her to be? Bleakly she realised this was her last throw of the dice in her relationship with Jonas and she was trying so hard to be what he required.

Another swirl of vomit cascaded around her stomach and then up and out on to the white toilet bowl as a hot flush shuddered through her. She groaned loudly, knowing there was no one to hear and sat back on her haunches wiping her mouth with a Kleenex. Had it really come to this?

The doorbell rang, jangling her already frayed nerves. "Shit!" Using the towel rail she pulled herself up onto juddering legs and carefully made her way along the hallway, back bent like an aged grandmother.

"All right. I'm coming!" She managed to call not very convincingly. 

It was a woman at the door, dark roots showing below her brazen bottle blonde hair and bright red lipstick over a tired smile. "You OK, honey?" she drawled.

Carrie nodded. "Fine," she responded weakly, wiping a strand of hair attractively tinted by vomit away from her face.

The woman shrugged. "You look like shit." She passed the flower tube over. "Here this might cheer you up a little."

At the sight of the red rose it contained the delivery woman's hopes were far from fulfilled as Carrie burst into tears and then collapsed on the doorstep in a spiritless, weeping heap.

 

Year 6

Carrie vaguely impressed herself by making it to ten o'clock on the morning of her next birthday before she got out of bed, stumbled to the kitchen and poured herself a large glass of wine. She took a long gulp, before reaching for her meds and taking them with the rest of the contents of the glass and refilling it quickly.

"Shit! Awoh! Fuck!" she screamed as she stood on a plastic brick, not packed away with the others. She hobbled comically about the kitchen swearing loudly as the pain flared. Spitefully she kicked the offending piece under the fridge unit where it would never be able to do such damage again.

As the pain subsided, she moved through to the living room, glass firmly in hand. An absent smile played across her lips as she picked up the painting that Frannie had brought home from school the day before. Her daughter was blossoming into quite an artist, producing work far more adult than her years. Carrie's parental pride faded when memories of her argument the previous night with Jonas forced themselves into her mind.

It had been the same argument they always had these days, but it was no less damaging because it was rehashed. He implored her to stop drinking, to sort herself out, to get a job, to look after her children. She fought back with obscenity laden nonsense and reached for the wine bottle. Fuck him! He was the one who had brought her here, made her give up everything that she enjoyed. And he was the one who had employed Lily full time, the pretty young Indonesian girl, to look after Carrie's children! 

An alcoholic tear formed at the corner of Carrie's eye as she looked more carefully at the picture Frannie had painted. It was a picture of her family, five figures as it included Lily holding little Jonas lovingly, captured so well in life-like detail. But what really got to Carrie was that her daughter had drawn her mom clutching hold of what could only be a bottle of wine! A wave of irrepressible anger overcame Carrie and she ripped the painting into tiny pieces and dropped them to the floor. Sobbing softly, she sat on the couch and drank her wine.

This was what her days had become, crashing downwards in a spiral of self-destruction that nobody seemed able to stop. She loathed Jonas with a vengeance, hated even the ground on which he stood. She tried to love little Jonas but his mewling, shitting, spewing turned her stomach and she willingly gave him up to Lily. Only Frannie, growing up into a beautiful, intelligent human being could reach in and touch the part of Carrie that could still love. 

The doorbell rang and Carrie remembered through the boozy haziness that it was her birthday. Suddenly it became very important to her to get her rose. She lurched upward, spilling her wine and ran to the door on suddenly energised legs.

It was a young, good looking Hispanic man this time, jet black hair falling tantalisingly into smouldering dark eyes. He smiled with professional indifference, he was hot and he knew it. He considered he was giving a service to these sad middle aged women drunk by ten thirty on a school day, by just turning up at their doors. Sometimes he would treat them with more than just flowers but not this one. This one was pretty enough for her age but he saw the crazy in her eye and knew she would be too hot to handle even for him

"Good morning, Seniora," he said turning his smile up to full volume, she looked like she needed some joy this one and he was always willing to deliver. "A beautiful bloom for you." He passed the package to her with an overblown gesture like a Knight returning a favour bestowed on him by a fair Lady.

Some part of Carrie's brain that was still functioning enough to care wondered idly if the flower shop sent a different person on purpose, to share the load of her embarrassing reaction. Wondered if they drew lots to see who would have to suffer the crazy old cow with the red rose this year, paid them danger money. Did these unfortunate people spend their breaks imagining who would send such a symbol of undying love to such a no hoper? Weakly she reached out a hand and accepted the rose, biting her trembling lip to keep her emotions in check.

"Thank you," her voice was gravelled, still sore from her screaming at Jonas the night before.

The flower deliverer gave a little bow. "You are welcome, pretty lady." And turned on his heel with a click of his trendy boots, skipped away manfully down the steps while whistling brightly.

Carrie returned to her seat on the sofa, picking up the wine bottle from the kitchen on the way and forgetting her glass, she chugged the numbing liquid straight from the bottle.

Her tears, like her life, had lost their passion over the preceding year, there was no drama, no feeling, they flowed unnoticed and silent, meandering along the newly etched lines of her face. She sniffed and wiped them away at irregular intervals. She sat dumbfounded on the sofa, moving only when she needed to get a new bottle of wine from her not-so-secret stash under the stairs, clutching hold of the rose like a drowning man holds on to his lifebelt as the day and indeed the rest of her life slipped away.

She allowed herself to wallow, lost in one drunken memory. The day of her father's funeral. How she longed to see that dark suited figure standing completely still at the very edge of her vision again. How she would run to him, clutch him tightly and never let him go. She would never have believed it possible to feel such intense hunger for the presence of another human being but that was the only thing she could feel now. 

"Quinn," she whispered mournfully. "Please come and save me."

 

Year 7

Carrie was feeling better by the time her next birthday came around. Granted she was on a phenomenally high dosage of her meds that couldn't be sustained for too long but after spending a number of nights in an expensive clinic that Jonas had checked her into, she was seeing a useful therapist often and was beginning to deal with her issues. Lily was a great help looking after the kids on her bad days and Carrie had grown fond of the slight Indonesian girl's irrepressible smile, love of chocolate and ability to put up with her employer’s outrageous behaviour. Little Jonas was walking and into everything and Frannie was still happy, although how she wasn’t affected by the toxic atmosphere in her home was a mystery. Carrie basically ignored Jonas, they interactions were stilted and short but there had been no screaming matches like the ones that characterised the year before. Jonas, for his part, had completely disconnected from her, sending her to clinics, therapists anywhere where he did not have to personally address her issues. He worked long hours and stayed out even later and that suited Carrie no end.

All of this helped her psyche but the real reason that Carrie felt better was she had a plan. She shared it with no one, not even the therapist, but ran it through her mind whenever she could, refining and improving. She had put together all the elements that she needed, just like in the good old days and now she was ready. All she had to do was wait for him to return, to come back into her life and sweep her off her feet. Which made it all the more heart-breaking when no rose arrived on her birthday.

Frannie was at school, Lily had taken little Jonas to the park and Carrie didn't care where Jonas was but she was alone in the house, as she always contrived to be on her birthday. Ten thirty, the normal time for a delivery, came and went and then eleven. Her palms began to get sweaty, her stomach tightened as an awful cloud of doom descended upon her.

Feeling vulnerable and alone, unable to settle or put her mind to anything, she slumped on to the couch, trying to ignore the wine bottle that was calling to her promising sweet release. Instead she finally allowed herself to remember her last meeting with Peter Quinn:

Suddenly she was back on the threshold of that sterile hospital room where she had spent so much time. The smell of stringent antiseptic flaring the nostrils, sharp on the air. "Were you fucking leaving me again, Quinn?"

He had his back to her, bending over the small bag that contained all of his tragically few earthly possessions but he stiffened at her voice.

"Without even speaking to me?" She continued pressing home the point.

He turned then, his face still pale and drawn, skin stretched too tight across those lethal cheekbones, eyes rimmed by blackness, dark hair longer than before falling into his eyes as he moved. Lines of burden stretching across his pale skin, around the eyes, across his forehead and framing his stubbly chin and stubbornly closed mouth. Older and even more buttoned down. Although he had done better than expected, proved the doctors wrong in their assessment of his recovery, and was walking away when they had predicted he would be crippled for life, it appeared that even Peter Quinn, the beautiful freak, couldn't make a trip to hell and back without consequences. He still bore the scars, buried deep where he could hide them away from the inquisitive world; he always would.

He gulped. "There's nothing to say," he muttered avoiding eye contact. He radiated a weariness of spirit she had never seen in him before.

"The fuck there is!" Carrie snapped back. "I read your letter!" Her heart banged against her ribs like it wanted to get out, her mouth was dry. It felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room.

The muscle on the side of his cheek twitched but no other emotion so much as flickered in him. He was hard as flint, sharp and cold, closed. "Nothing's changed," he said.

"Quinn, you said you fucking loved me!"

An almost imperceptible nod as he lifted the bag gingerly from the bed, testing his atrophied muscles with its weight, grimacing slightly at his only recently familiar lack of condition, his weakness.

"Quinn, you can't just leave, that's serious shit!" Carrie moved between him and the door, challengingly.

Quinn's eyes took on a pained expression and he made a motion as close to a shrug as he could manage, given the circumstances. He drew in a long breath, dropping his bag. "Nothing's changed," he repeated through gritted teeth, holding it all in, refusing to take the baited hook she was so obviously throwing him.

"How can you say that!"

"You read the letter; you knew and what did you do?"

Carrie opened her mouth to respond but the sudden, barely restrained and uncharacteristic pain in his voice stopped her. She was shocked by the revelation of such vulnerability following so closely behind his usual defence of the emotionless granite wall which he always hid behind. "What do you mean?" she stuttered. Her mind was whirling. He was referring to Jonas obviously but how did he even know about him? He had been crippled in a hospital bed and she had been careful not to mention anything. Peter Quinn had his sources of course - fucking Astrid! Deep inside Carrie had known there would be a day of reckoning but she had pushed it aside, refused to think about it because she didn't want it to happen. Focused on Quinn getting better and re-energising her relationship with Jonas and keeping the two apart.

"You know what I mean!" he spat. She shook her head delaying the inevitable, knowing that he had somehow seized the initiative. "Go on Carrie, I want to hear you say it!" He held her gaze now, blazing with fiery indignation.

"Say what?" She was back pedalling at his onslaught. An acidic serpent of guilt squirming nauseously in her belly.

He crossed his arms, stood terrifyingly still, his ice blue eyes drilling into her with no mercy as they had done in the past. The only man whoever dared to call her on her shit, calling her out viciously for one last time. "Shit Carrie!" His voice hitched with anger. "Explain to me how this is gonna work."

She physically stepped back from the intensity, from the power that seemed to emanate from him. "What?"

"Three nights a week with Jonas, three with me and one off to get your breath back?" His stillness was horrifying because she could sense the hot churning of his fury, his despair, as it eddied and swirled deep within him. And yet she also saw his strength and control, returned as if the previous six months had never happened.

Shaking his head, he braced himself to bend and pick up the bag again. "You've made your choice, Carrie. Now get out of my way!"

"You're not going back?" she asked.

His smile had all the human compassion of a skull left to rot in the fierce desert scorched by the moon and bleached by the sun. "It's what I do. Nothing has changed!"

"But...."

"No. You don't get to play that card, Carrie. Better this way. We deserve this. Better for all of us." He shook his head sadly. "Fuck you, Carrie!" And with that he was gone, his unforgiving, brave swagger the last thing she perceived as the door banged shut with a note of dooming finality.

Carrie had stood alone in the hospital room for a long time, simply devastated. She remembered it so vividly now. The frustration was a physical sensation. It felt like being crushed. But seriously, she told herself, what had she thought would happen? Quinn was right, when it really mattered, she had begged Jonas to take her back, to give her the normalcy of her life in Berlin, to play happy families. And she had been so thrilled when the German lawyer had agreed. Surely that must have been what she really wanted?

Too late, as the days had passed, turning into weeks, months, years, she had begun to realise that she had clutched at the mundane, the normal, the safety of Jonas because she thought that was the right thing to do but it was not what her heart desired or indeed what her soul required. 

But the volatile, addictive danger that was Peter Quinn, the man who understood her more than any other and who embodied the passion that she now realised she needed, was long gone.

And now, back in her lonely living room, Carrie wondered if this time it was really forever.

She pushed away the memory of his heated exit but the trepidation lingered still. The room, her room, that she had spent so much of her recent life in, suddenly felt cold and alien. She glanced at the clock, shit it was two thirty already, the kids would be home soon.... and still no rose. Maybe the delivery man was delayed, maybe it would come tomorrow. Any number of explanations swirled around her brain but in her heart she knew with blood freezing certainty.

She drew in a long breath. She stood. Her hand shaking, she reached for her phone, pressed a number she had never thought to dial again. Waited, heart thumping, not really expecting an answer but one came.

"Hello?"

"Dar Adal? It's me Carrie Mathison." She was speaking too fast but she had a sudden fear that he would put the phone down on her. "I just want an answer to one question."

To his credit and her relief, he didn't pull the national security card, didn't say that she was no longer classified to receive any information whatsoever. He didn't say he had long since retired. He didn't say anything and that made Carrie think that he had been expecting this phone call. The coldness ran through her bowels.

"Go on," he prompted finally.

"Is Peter Quinn dead?"

His hesitated for only the time it took for one flap of a butterfly's wings but it was enough to tell her what she needed to know. The whole of her body froze, the chill from her bowels splintering up through her like fingers of frost on a winter's morning. Her legs were unable to support her weight and she lurched to grasp hold of the table. Clinging on to it grimly, heart thumping loudly, she almost missed his answer when it came.

A simple, "Yes."

The violent drumming of her heart increased to a critical level, threatening to drown out everything else. "How?" She muttered, the world lost all shape and form before her, smudging into a nondescript dreary grey as the tears flooded into her eyes.

Dar cleared his throat on the other end of the line. "Northern Afghanistan," he began, voice neutral. "Suicide bomber."

Carrie sniffed back snot. Used her hand to wipe at her eyes and made a keening sound deep in her throat. It was all she could manage.

"He was out," Dar continued, his voice softening as if, now the tragic news was released, he wanted to give her some succour.

"Out?"

"Yeah. He never came back. Not after Berlin. We kept in touch, or rather I kept my eye on him. He was working for a charity, building schools, medical centres. He'd ditched his Black Ops habit, finally stopped killing and started creating." There was a long pause, the silence deafening before Dar continued. "Bastard suicide bomber just wanted to take out an American."

Carrie lost her fight against gravity but managed to sit down on a dining chair with a thump. She sniffed again. "Was he happy?"

Dar let out a humourless chuckle. "What do you want me to say, Carrie?" 

"The truth, I only ever wanted the truth."

Dar sighed sadly. "No, he wasn't happy. Stoically enduring as he always did is all. Happiness was never for him." His voice finally faltered and cracked noticeably over the last sentence.

Carrie gulped as the tears fell unashamedly down her face. There was a long silence before she managed to get out, "Thank you."

She didn't know if Dar said anything else because she dropped her phone, fell off the chair to her knees and let huge, heart-breaking sobs wrack through her body as the tears flowed.


	2. A Troublesome Thorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom."  
> \- Chinese Proverb

Year 1

The first red rose that he sent her, almost two years after he had last seen her, was a very bad joke. An action borne from the festering hurt, the anger, that he still felt churning in the depths of his soul. A fury that no matter how hard he tried with bitter alcohol and an endless line of fumbling faceless women in the dark, he could not quench. 

He sent it on a whim, as he stumbled passed a flower shop in the warm spring sunshine, aware that her birthday was soon. He was not one for empty gestures and as soon as he left the shop, ashamed of his own pettiness, he wanted to return and cancel the order. But something stopped him. He didn't know what and he didn't care enough to wonder why. All of his wondering was taken up with how could it have possibly come to this?

He had been so sure. She had visited him every day in the hospital, soothingly stroked his hands with massage oil, looked into his eyes with a deep understanding and smiled her encouragement, given him the will to come back when if he had been left alone he would have simply accepted the pull to darkness. In the indistinct atmosphere of the hospital, antiseptic with the lingering hint of decomposition drifting unmentioned on the air, floating on a sea of pain and drugs, he hovered somewhere in the dim overgrown twilight. He now realised he had seen what he wanted to see, heard what he wanted to hear, let himself believe that she was willing to take him. That she was the one who could warm and comfort him, love his worthless soul like no other. That she waited for him, and so he came back for her.

How had he been so wrong? Twice he had revealed his feelings to her and twice she had rejected him. There would be no third time. He was done.

So he sent her an anonymous red rose. A final ironic gesture. One flower on one birthday. It was not really his style. Would she know it was from him? Would she care? She surely would not understand his motives, but then had she ever?

And yet without her undying faith and support he knew he would never have made it out of the hospital. He had realised just how badly his body and mind had been abused only when he got better. Every time, he felt like he had to be back to normal, then, not long after, he would find that, no, there had been more. More pain, more suffering, more strength stolen from him, more damage done, some of it permanently. It was in the insignificant things that it manifested itself now; remembering what he had crossed the room to pick up, keeping the tremor in his hand steady enough to pour boiling water into the coffee cup, pain shooting along his arm when he picked up a seemingly light bag......a light bag. And that link would spark the recurring memory, sending him plummeting back into the hospital, their last time together skidding crazy and unstoppable, into his head......

"Are you fucking leaving me again, Quinn?" Her voice was brittle, waiting to shatter like broken glass. As ever she was barely clinging on, metaphorical fingers white as she hung from her own precipice; that was Carrie, always one for dramatics.

He had his back to her, bending over the small bag that contained all of his pathetic earthly possessions and he stiffened at her voice. Knowing this scene was bound to happen, wishing he had got away before it had chance to.

"Without even speaking to me?" She continued letting her voice tremble to press home her point.

He marshalled his ravaged psyche, buttoning down every single emotion that wanted to reveal itself by deepening the already pronounced contours of his face, finding his mask. She would get nothing from him, not now. He may still bear the scars of his suffering, but they were buried deep where he could hide them away from the inquisitive world and especially from her.

He gulped. "There's nothing to say," he muttered avoiding eye contact. He was suddenly tired beyond belief, eager to be away from the emotional maelstrom that as ever centred on her. She made him feel, and feelings were dangerous and painful.

"The fuck there is!" Carrie snapped back. "I read your letter!" Eyes blazing, imploring him to fight with her.

Those fucking emotions; anger, hurt, guilt were snapping at him like an excited dog but he forced them down. He was hard as flint, sharp and cold, closed. He had to be, a fight now would do neither of them any good. "Nothing's changed," he said.

"Quinn, you said you fucking loved me!"

He felt his head betray him with a slight nod at her words. Of course he did. Had she really never seen it? Breathing deep, he focused all of his attention on the bag before him. Ignoring the shaft of pain that splintered along his arm he lifted it gingerly from the bed. He tested his atrophied muscles with its weight, grimacing slightly at his weakness, hoping she had not perceived it.

"Quinn, you can't just leave, that's serious shit!" Carrie moved between him and the door, challengingly.

He allowed himself only a brittle shrug and drew in a long breath, dropping his bag, it's weight too much to bear. "Nothing's changed," he repeated through gritted teeth, holding it all in, refusing to take the baited hook she was so obviously throwing him.

"How can you say that!" She would not budge. They glared at each other, emotion hot and volatile jarring between them, fire and gasoline, making them both feel so much more alive.

So it was a fight she wanted. Really Carrie, really? His heart felt like a fiery furnace, about to blow at any time, stoked beyond its capacity, belching smoke, angry and toxic, through the rest of his body. Calling him to action, to give up his forbearance and give her what she required. Still he desperately held on, thrusting forth his words, a shield to hide behind, inner anguish as his voice faltered. "You read the letter; you knew and what did you do?"

Carrie opened her mouth to respond but she hesitated, screwed her face in indecision obviously shocked by the sudden weakness he had revealed to her. He swore internally at what he had exposed. How did she do this to him? He had to keep control, if he let her see how affected he was, he would never survive this encounter. He had to ingest his anger, his disbelief at the choice she had made, that alone could give him the strength to endure this meeting which was breaking him in ways nothing else he had suffered had ever done.

"What do you mean?" she stuttered, her eyes flashing dangerously. 

The anger was feeding him, carrying him through like a surfer on a wave and he knew it was his salvation. He had to keep it raw, he could show no pity, not give into the cautionary voice at the edge of his consciousness that advised him to treat her gently. "You know what I mean!" he spat, abandoning his defence, he attacked with words he knew would wound. Seizing the initiative from her as she hesitated. "Go on Carrie, I want to hear you say it!" He held her gaze now, blazing with fierce indignation, that was ultimately as barren and empty as the rest of him.

"Say what?" She was back pedalling at his onslaught, tears glistened in her eyes, threatening to overflow and sweep down her reddening cheeks.

This was what he needed, he needed to hurt her thoughtlessly but precisely, as she had hurt him. He crossed his arms, forcing himself to stand terrifyingly still, his eyes drilling into her with no mercy, not like in the past. Calling her out viciously for her shit one last time. "Shit, Carrie!" His voice hitched again but this time it was with pure rage. "Explain to me how this is gonna work."

She physically stepped back from him all wide eyed and innocent. "What?"

The anger was intoxicating, it masked his despair, giving him the kind of power that he had not felt in a very long time. He let it rule him, to put words of sarcastic hate into his mouth, to keep on hurting her. "Three nights a week with Jonas, three with me and one off to get your breath back?" He held her watery gaze, daring her as she had dared him minutes before. Her jaw began to wobble as she gulped in air, tried to find words to defend herself but they failed her.

Shaking his head, he braced himself to bend and pick up the bag again. "You've made your choice, Carrie. Now get out of my way!"

"You're not going back?" she asked, disbelief shading her desperate eyes.

His allowed himself a sad, knowing smile. "It's what I do. Nothing has changed!"

"But....." She was preparing to beg, he could see it and he couldn't allow it to happen. Instinctively he knew it would undo him as it always had and claustrophobic fear suddenly threatened to engulf him, to smother his anger. 

He shut her down as viciously as he could. "No. You don't get to play that card, Carrie. Better this way. We deserve this. Better for all of us." He shook his head sadly. "Fuck you, Carrie!" And with that he headed for the door, even now his body was stiff and seemingly unwilling to leave her.

The door banged shut with a note of doom and Quinn was in the corridor, the bag a sudden ton weight pulling him down. He staggered, as heat flushed through him, his heart thundered in his chest and his trembling muscles threatened to snap like overstretched elastic bands. He made about fifty yards before he had to stop, prop himself up against the wall and focus only on breathing. He stood there for agonising moments, the fear in his head that Carrie would exit the room and witness what a weak, pathetic excuse for a man he had become. That she would see that he was not worthy of her, that her choice of Jonas would be vindicated.

But she did not appear and he finally managed to gather up enough angry energy to fuel his painful stagger away from the hospital and away from her.

Yes, a single nameless red rose was a fitting epilogue for a relationship that had been destined to crash and burn spectacularly from its very beginning. The joke had always been on him.

 

Year 2

"Anyway, I asked you to come for a reason, my shout, although I do want to buy you food, you look as if you need it, not fucking whiskey!" Astrid said, squinting at Quinn in the bright light, she put down her knife and fork, eying him calmly. "I'm getting married."

"Fucking hell!" 

Astrid's perfect eyebrows rose skyward. "I'll take that as your heartfelt congratulations, Peter," she said wryly.

Quinn took a long draw of his whiskey while Astrid went back to her salad. They were sitting in a unassuming deli-cum-cafe, tucked away in a small street on the corner of the beautiful Gendarmenmarkt Square in Berlin. He had come against his better judgement and pointedly refused all offers of food, preferring instead to take on his calories by alcohol. He had expected a lecture, not this.

"Sorry," he managed to mutter finally. "It's just a bit of a surprise. Who is the lucky guy?"

Astrid snorted. "Believe me, no one is more shocked at this turn of events than me." She nervously pushed a strand of hair that had escaped from her rather severe ponytail back behind her ear. "I only met him three weeks ago, it's been like a whirlwind! I feel like a teenager!" she disclosed. As if to prove the point she let out a self-conscious giggle which she only managed to rein in and deepen into a somewhat uncomfortable cough with great difficulty.

Quinn reached across to gently clasp hold of her hand and squeeze it fondly. Being continually and morosely caught in his own everlasting malaise, he hadn't noted any difference in her but now he looked at her again, really looked, he saw the sparkle in her eye, the bloom of happiness on her cheeks; something had changed. While she had always been sexily attractive there had been a cold aloofness, now she was as warm and golden as the sun, shining brightly and quite beautiful with it.

He smiled broadly. "I'm happy for you," he said with complete sincerity and not a little jealousy.

They sat silently staring into each other's eyes, each remembering their closeness from times gone by. Quinn felt the sharp pain of loss stabbing sharp and dreadful at his innards. It felt like he had lost something irreplaceable and he only now was beginning to see its true value.

Finally, Astrid snorted and pulled her hand away. "Peter, please don't smile at me like that," she muttered but her tone was light until she added. "Only you can make me change my mind about this."

He drew back from her, emptied his glass anxiously. "I don't think so." He was deadly serious.

She gulped. "No perhaps not," she conceded, "There was never any real future for us." She sighed and turned her attention back to the salad once more.

He signalled to the waiter for another drink and she shook her head in discontent. "I wish you would eat something."

Ignoring her motherly concern, Quinn asked again. "So who is the lucky guy?"

Astrid finished chewing a mouthful of crisp greenery and then drew in a long breath. "He works at the Australian Embassy. His name is Bruce." Her cheeks flushed attractively but she ignored Quinn's startled and steadily rising eyebrows and continued. "And he makes me very happy."

Quinn nodded, picked up his empty glass in an overly dramatic salute and said, "To Astrid and Bruce!"

Astrid smiled but the warmth in it leeched away to leave only sad concern. "Which leaves you."

Quinn became suddenly interested in a group of teenagers on skateboards across the square. "I'm OK," he mumbled staring half-heartedly at the various tricks that were being executed to a ripple of applause.

"Yes, I can see that!" Astrid fixed him with her unrelenting gaze, irony turning serious. "Everything you went through, all the progress you made. Fuck, Peter those doctors said you would never get out of that bed and yet you did. You cannot throw it all away. Drink yourself into the grave. Give up." She hesitated as a shadow of guilt dulled her gaze. "I never would have told you if I thought you were going to give up without a fight."

So here came the lecture. He had expected it. He should walk away now but in truth Quinn had too much respect for Astrid, cared too much for her and she was buying him whiskey after all, so he simply sighed, tiredly. "I've had enough fighting, haven't got the stomach for it anymore." He accepted the new drink as if it was his first in weeks with a grateful nod to the waiter and took a long pull. 

"Bullshit! You never walked away from a fight in your life. Never gave up on anything you wanted. I've never known anyone as stubborn as you. I don't get it."

Quinn gulped back more liquor as if it could save him from the inquisition. Over the preceding year the seed of doubt that had germinated in the hospital corridor had done nothing but grow inside his head until it threatened to overwhelm the anger that energised him. He was not good enough, had never been. Hell, even before, Carrie was way out of his league, now he was broken beyond repair, there was no way. Carrie had made the right choice; better a smart German lawyer than a crippled assassin. 

Astrid eyed him patiently. He shifted uneasily on his chair, mouth suddenly desert dry despite his earlier imbibing and reached for his drink once more. Finally when his glass was empty again and he could delay no longer he said, "She made her choice."

Astrid rolled her eyes. "I've waited for you to snap out if this. I supported you all I can, stayed silent as you suffered but now I will say what I need to say."

Quinn stood up, chair scrapping nosily along the concrete, he swayed slightly until he rested his hand on the table for balance. "That's not......"

"Sit down, Quinn!" Her voice was quiet but so commanding and Quinn found himself not resisting but bumping back down on to the chair, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. Damn she was a class act!

"Astrid...." he began, knowing it was futile.

"Shut up, Peter. The grown up is talking now and you need to listen!" Taken aback by her forthrightness Quinn framed as if to argue, but again sensing the guilt that sourced her need to talk, thought better of it and raised his hands in a gesture of resigned surrender.

"You have two options," Astrid spoke quickly as if unsure how long he would give her. "But no matter what, you have to get away from here. Go home, Peter go back to the States, you achieve nothing mooning around here, getting fried by your own memories."

His voice was raw. "What do you suggest I do?"

She looked at him, not quite believing he was asking her for advice, in all her memories of their times together she could not recall him ever doing so before. He had always been calm and sure, self-contained, a workable plan formulated in his strategic brain and feeling no necessity to consult about it. "Go back to work. We all have a talent, something that makes us stand out from the crowd. You know what yours is. Go back to it."

"That's it?"

"Or go back to Carrie. Apologise. Tell her your feelings haven't changed."

"I can't do that."

"Why?"

He looked away, bit his lip, shook his head. 

Astrid leaned closely. "She chose in a moment of stress, when her world was falling apart. You don't know that she would choose the same today."

Quinn stood up, again. This time his jaw was set, iron firm. "I do know it was the right decision."

"You're wrong, Peter." Astrid strained to keep her voice steady. "I know Jonas and I know that a man like that will not keep Carrie satisfied for long. She needs more."

Quinn shook his head. "Even if that's true... I can't...." He stopped, gulped, looked away and then back to her, buttoned down, emotionless. "Thank you for the drinks, Astrid. I wish you only happiness."

"Come to my wedding!" She called knowing, as he turned away once more that her time was done. Her play over.

He nodded but both knew he would not.

She watched him walk painfully slowly across the square, passed the skate boarders, and then he was obscured from view by others rushing about their daily jobs. She remembered the pure physical vitality and strength of purpose of the man she had once known and she wondered wistfully, as she always did when they parted, if this would be the last time she ever saw him.

As Quinn exited the square at the other side, he passed a small flower shop. It was April, it would be Carrie's birthday soon and oh how he wanted to believe what Astrid had said. But even if she was right, he knew he could not be what Carrie needed. Not yet anyway. He ducked into the dim shop, his senses at once overwhelmed by beautiful scents and colourful blooms that awaited him in its mysterious depths, but there was only one flower he wished to purchase. Was it hope or despair that drove him on?

 

Year 3

"So, you came. I didn't know if you were in the States and even if you were whether you would but I got a booth just in case."

"Who could resist an invitation to your Tuesday session at Walter's Waffle House?" Quinn slid on to the seat opposite his old mentor.

Dar screwed up his nose, glanced around the familiar surroundings. "It's not what it was. Changed hands again. Who wants to be served in the morning by an acne-ridden, monosyllabic school boy?" He let out a long sigh. "Oh I miss Berta! Hubby retired, forty years in the NYPD, they moved out to the sticks." He sighed dramatically. "But then everything changes and none of us are getting any younger! What will you have?"

"Maybe it's a signal that it's time for you to retire."

Dar snorted. "I've been ignoring those for longer than I can remember. What will you eat?" he pressed.

Quinn shrugged, he was still stoking on anger and alcohol. "Nothing."

"Nonsense!" Dar snorted loudly. Sure enough, a sniffing, spotty boy who looked as if he had just left kindergarten sauntered up with an order pad almost as greasy as his complexion. He made an indistinct grunting sound that seemed to indicate he was ready to take the order. Dar rolled his eyes in silent confirmation of his earlier complaint. 

"Just a black coffee," Quinn requested in a voice that reflected his complete disinterest in sustenance of any kind.

"Bullshit!" Dar responded. He turned to the boy who was wiping the snot from his nose over the back of his hand, eyes vacant as he replayed his latest computer game in his head. Dar's face twisted with distaste. "Got me two times my usual!" The boy's lizard-like tongue popped out of his mouth as he concentrated on writing. Impatiently Dar said, "You do remember what my usual is, don't you?"

The boy looked up through long, limp bangs, his face contorted into somewhere east of a proper smile but it was obviously the best he could do. He grunted his affirmation. Dar looked unsure but nodded. As the boy stumbled away he shouted after him. "Oh and you better bring donuts, bring extra donuts too!" The boy's shoulders twitched in recognition of the further request as he moved towards the kitchen.

"Jesus it's a wonder I don't die of malnutrition!" Dar muttered.

"I don't think you should worry about that," Quinn responded dryly.

Dar fiddled with a napkin. "So, are you coming back?"

Quinn sat back in his chair, body long and lank, worryingly thin, face pale, almost grey, eyes glinting with icy intelligence. "What happened to the small talk?"

"Spare me, Peter. We've known each other too long for bullshit."

Quinn pursed his lips and nodded. "I'm surprised you would consider taking me back after the clusterfuck of my last mission."

"You were unlucky. Nobody could have known what...."

"I should have found out! I was stupid and reckless!"

"You were a risk taker Peter, that's what made you so good at what you did. You took risks, and sometimes risks don't come off. You learn from your mistakes. Move on. That's what you used to do."

Quinn lifted his right hand, it hovered above the table, shuddering slightly. "What a fucking novel idea," he muttered. "An assassin who can't shoot straight, who can't hold a gun still."

"I've read your medical reports!" Dar snapped angrily.

At that moment breakfast arrived, plates of waffles, muffins and bacon and syrup and donuts all balanced spectacularly insecurely on a massive wooden tray that the spotty waiter could barely be seen behind. Quinn was impressed, kid was obviously stronger than he looked. It took an inordinate amount of time to transfer the plates to the table but thankfully there were no mishaps. The kid slunk away leaving the scent of body odour and teenage angst on the air.

"I'm not talking about operational work." Dar started, as he meticulously layered butter on to a muffin. "You have a great strategic mind, Peter. You always had. I'm talking about working with me, planning, organising, leading." He took a huge triumphant bite of the muffin, butter ran in a yellow river of grease down his chin.

Quinn ignored all the plates of food stacked before him and instead took a sip of coffee. It was strong and hot and somehow comforting. "No."

Dar hesitated, wiped his chin with the napkin, reached for the syrup. "I hear that Carrie Mathison has been receiving red roses from an unknown admirer," he said matter-of-factly.

Fuck! Quinn tried to stop his body from reacting, from tensing but it was an instinctive reaction and he knew from the glint in Dar's eye and the satisfied curl of his lips that the old bastard realised he had hit the target with his latest shot. "And how the fuck would you know that?"

Dar's annoying grin deepened. "I have my sources."

"Fuck your sources!"

"Only following protocol with regard to watching suspect retired officers." Dar responded mildly.

"Fuck protocol!"

Dar gently lay his napkin on the table. "Really Peter, you're a smart boy, why can't you realise that it's over? Why do you continue to fucking crucify yourself on the cross of Carrie Mathison. She is no fucking good for you. I see it, she sees it, the whole fucking world sees it. Why don't you? Take a tip from a guy who knows; no more red roses!"

"What the fuck do you want, Dar?" Quinn snarled, fighting to restrain his temper.

"Oh that question has a simple answer." Dar seemingly enjoying the scene, smiled serenely. "I want you. I'm tired of waiting, tired of wasting time, tired of you drowning in self-pity. So you made a wrong call, so you let your ambition overtake your judgement, your need for excitement and action overrule your caution. So what! You survived, you're here aren't you. It's time you found your fucking balls again, Peter, and got back in the game!" He raised his hand to acknowledge the diner. "All this happy, all this normal, only exists because brave men bleed their lives away to protect it. Men like you, Peter. It defines you, without it look at you, a broken, alcoholic who only sees the world through the dregs at the bottom of a cheap whiskey bottle. You are so much more than that, Peter. Come back. Come home."

"Are you done?" Quinn's voice thundered through gritted teeth menacingly.

Dar carried on, unconcerned at the threat. "What's a matter Peter, public place cramping your style? Can't put me in that choke hold to shut the truth up with people watching?" Dar sneered. "Think you could even manage it now? Look at the state of you, I doubt it!" He shook his head.

Quinn stood up. "Don't flatter yourself old man!" he spat, lurching forward across the table murderously.

Dar smiled, easily leaning back away from the ragged attack. A plate of muffins was not so lucky and crashed to the floor nosily. "That's it. That's more like it, I knew the fighter was in you somewhere. I spent too much moulding you into the very best for it all to be pissed away, for her to ruin it completely. Assassins are not born, they are made and I fucking created you, never forget that Peter. Now sit down and eat your donuts; people are beginning to stare!"

It was true, all other talk in the diner had stopped, faces turned toward their booth, all moulded into the same expression, that bovine, wide-eyed and curious stare that city-dwellers get when they sense a drama is taking place in front of them and for free.

Quinn remained standing but felt suddenly vulnerable. He hated being the focus of all these pairs of prying eyes. "I don't owe you anything, it's you who fucking owes me, Dar," he growled but more quietly this time.

"Yes I do, I don't deny it," Dar replied smoothly. "So let me help you now."

Quinn swayed, obviously undecided, before shaking his head. "No, not now," he spat.

Dar rolled his eyes and made a big play of tucking into his syrup-oozing breakfast once more. Quinn hesitated and then headed for the door. 

"You forgot your donuts!" Dar called as Quinn stalked passed him, both ignoring the still enrapt gaze of the other customers.

Outside in the grey light of morning, Quinn pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it with trembling fingers and took a long, slow lungful of smoke. Then, feeling slightly less ragged he pulled out his phone, muttered, "Fuck you, Dar!" Under his breath.

"Hello, I wonder if you can help me, do you do international deliveries?" he asked the quietly spoken lady who answered at the other end.

 

Year 4

Quinn lowered his rifle scope, rubbed the bridge of his nose, puzzled, he watched as the young woman who had exited Carrie's flat negotiated her push chair expertly past tightly parked cars and began her morning walk down the street. He sat motionless, apparently not noticing her as she passed the hire car in which he waited but every one of his senses was on full alert, eager to pick up any intel.

She was a pretty, slight girl, dark hair, today trapped in a bun but on other days cascading about her shoulders in luscious waves. She appeared content and was definitely attractive but she most certainly was not Carrie and the baby in the pushchair was too young to be Frannie. Quinn had watched her for the last three mornings and her return journey at lunch time. He had watched her flat and seen nobody else enter or leave it at all in those three days. He waited until she had turned the corner at the end of the street and then he gunned the engine. Intrigued, he had one more place to try.

The elderly man at the reception desk of the During Organisation HQ in Berlin gave him a friendly smile as he walked up. "Can I help you, Sir?"

"I hope so," Quinn responded in his best German, he was mildly irritated when the man chose to respond in prefect English.

"It would be my pleasure," the man said, blue eyes twinkling with mirth as if someone had told a very clever joke. 

Quinn glanced around the vestibule area. Mid morning, quite busy and the phone kept ringing on the desk in front of the receptionist who was studiously ignoring it, concentrating on the customer in front of him instead. "I'm looking for someone," Quinn began.

"Aren't we all?" The man responded cheerily with no hint of sarcasm. He was tall and slim, a body built for physicality but now drooping with old age like a cut flower in a vase that nobody remembered to water. "Do you have a name?" he asked politely. "Or will anybody do?"

"Mathison, Carrie Mathison. She works here." Quinn ignored the strange furry feeling on his tongue and the knot in his belly when he mentioned her name, centring his well-tuned senses instead on the man's reaction. It wasn't necessary, he would have had to have been blind or an idiot not to perceive the stiffening of interest in the man before him at Carrie's name. Quinn was neither of these things and he noted the reaction with interest.

The man's eyes went up in their sockets as if he was reading instructions on the inside of his eyelids. He said nothing for what felt like an extremely long time and Quinn glanced away. When he looked back he became aware that those beady eyes were now focused on him and he was being studied with great interest. The man's gaze was drilling into him, travelling expertly and quickly to garner as much information as possible. Suddenly Quinn felt uncomfortable; he hadn't shaved in days, his hair was too long drifting into his eyes and his clothes, crumpled and grubby, could do with a wash. In his career with the Agency and Special Forces before that, he had been inspected many times and he had never felt quite as deficient as he did under this damn receptionist's appraising stare.

"Who wants to know?" The receptionist said finally. Was that with a hint of distaste in his voice?

"A friend." Quinn spat back irritatedly.

The man smiled warmly seemingly impervious to bad humour. He nodded his head slightly as somebody does when they have proved a personal theory and yet are too modest to shout about it. "She doesn't work here anymore," he disclosed, definitely no distaste in his voice now, only sympathy.

Quinn gulped, really not knowing how to read this man. "Do you have a contact address please?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that." The man seemed genuinely upset that he couldn't help further. "But if you give me your details I could see that she gets them."

Quinn hesitated. Licked his lips. "Of course," he responded. "Got paper?" The man passed over a pen and pad. "Maybe you should get that?" Quinn indicated the constantly ringing phone. "They seem pretty pissed."

"Yes I will." The receptionist looked down to pick up the phone, his attention elsewhere, Quinn turned and ghosted out of the building, so skilfully that it took long seconds before the receptionist even realised he was gone.

Klaus, the receptionist, looked at the vacant space before him, the empty revolving door and down to the pristine, untouched note pad on the desk. He shook his head sadly. "Well, I think I found our phantom rose sender, Carrie," he muttered. He briefly toyed with the idea of phoning Carrie but decided against it. After all what did he have to tell her? An unkempt guy with the saddest eyes he had ever seen had come to the office asking for her? No, he decided to wait and see if a rose turned up for her on her birthday as usual. "Found him and lost him again!" He muttered and then, as if his happy balloon had been burst by the stranger's bad temper, he shouted, "Shut the fuck up!", impotently at the perpetually ringing phone.

Quinn moved quickly down the street not concentrating on where he was going, chest tight, stomach lurching as the undeniable truth hit him. She was gone for good. And it was time he pulled his own life together. Listened to those people who cared for him. Did something of worth or lost himself forever. He fumbled with his phone. Dialled a familiar number. "Astrid? It's me, Peter."

"Peter." There was a long pause. "You just caught me. I'm leaving."

"Yeah. I just wanted to apologise for not coming to your wedding. I...." He stopped, not sure what else he wanted to say, running out of words.

Astrid snorted. "That was almost two years ago, Peter."

"Two years? Fuck, time flies. So you OK? Where are you going?"

"Husband, Bruce, is posted to Sydney. I'll be working at the German Embassy there."

"Sydney?" Fuck, that was a long way away! "Kangaroos and digeridoos?" he said mindlessly awkward, trying for small talk and failing desperately.

She snorted again not amused by his feeble attempt at humour.

"Fuck, everyone is leaving." He gulped, ran his hand through his hair neurotically. Since when did two women qualify for the term 'everybody'? Since he realised that only Astrid and Carrie were important to him, he supposed.

Astrid understood him immediately. "Yeah, I heard Jonas got a job with the UN in New York."

Fuck! Carrie had gone back to New York! He could find no words to articulate anything and the line was silent for long moments. "Peter, are you still there?" Astrid asked, voice strained.

"Yeah."

It was done. Over. 

But deep inside he knew he could not let her go completely. A sudden peace descended on him as if a big burden had lifted. He felt suddenly light. He did not need to wallow in his loss anymore and neither did he need to chase her. He could continue to send her red roses but it was different now. He could keep her safe in his heart, deep inside his own memories. His Carrie, his very own, without the need to see or be with her. Forever apart but forever true. She would be his beacon, his light but never again to touch and certainly never to hold. It was enough.

He felt a wave of relief wash through him. "Before you go, Astrid, I wonder if you could help me with something?"

To her credit there was not a second's hesitation. "Of course, whatever you need."

 

Year 5

Qarabatur, was a small village inhabited by Farsi-speaking ethnic Hazaras, nestled on a mountain in Kunduz Province in northern Afghanistan. Like many Afghan villages, it was impossibly remote. The people there led a hard, semi-nomadic life, simple and harsh, in an arid region which was dependant on the snows from October to April to water their meagre grain crops and herds. Food was barely adequate and health issues were serious, aggravated by geographical isolation, unsanitary conditions and medical care only accessible at far distances by foot or donkey. 

The Taliban had washed across this granular land for decades ebbing and flowing like the tide oozing up and down the shore but always when they percolated away the flotsam they left behind came in the form of deadly landmines.

Astrid had called in some favours to get Quinn a place with a German mine clearing charity, it was well within his skill set and he had been working with them for some months. To get to Qarabatur, Quinn and his colleagues had to make a bone-crushing drive on an unpaved track across a sun-scorched desert, and then take one hairpin turn after another up a winding gravel mountain road. But they were used to such hardship. All of them were former soldiers, a small compact unit of hard men doing a job full of risk in one of the most dangerous places on the planet.

Quinn had felt ragged when he had arrived in this barren country. His soul so thin he could almost feel where it was stretched too tightly, where it would burst apart. And what would it leave when it did? He was already a broken, hulk of a man, what would become of him? How would he ever piece together the straining pieces? Make it whole again, make himself human once more?

And yet, as time went on, he settled in with the rest of the team, improved his German and came in useful with his good grasp of Farsi. He found the work, although hard, to be enriching and realised just how much he had missed the pure adrenaline rush that came with field work. But more than the practicalities of the job, the overwhelming gratitude of the people surprised and touched him. Wherever they went they were greeted with not just a warm welcome but smiles of grateful joy from the very poor, but very hospitable, families in the remote locations of the northern region of Afghanistan. Although a veteran of action in many countries Quinn had experienced nothing like it elsewhere. He could not get enough of their beautiful warm spirits, burning brightly even in such dark adversity and he could not find the words to explain the fulfilment and reward of doing a task for someone who could never repay him. As time went on, he felt something deep within slowly mending his brokenness, slowly but inextricably piecing itself back together.

As he stepped down from their jeep, something about the little village of Qarabatur reached out to him, grabbed hold and refused to let go. The rest of the group were stretching, smoking, muttering and Quinn moved away from them, attracted by the pile of stones at the top end of the village.

"Hey Kuffar!" Came a voice. "Bet you're not here to mend my school, are you?"

Quinn turned to see a gangly boy at that awkward age between childhood and being an adult, all graceless uneven angles, with typical Hazara oriental features; a mop of unruly black hair, pointed cheek bones and asian eyes and nose regarding him sceptically. The kid's face broke into a shocked and increasingly red gawk when Quinn replied to him in perfect Farsi.

"No, we're here to clear your landmines."

The boy gulped back his surprised embarrassment and stepped out from behind the low wall to reveal he was leaning on two roughly shaped wooden crutches, the right leg of his woollen pants was empty and neatly gathered up at the top of his thigh. "My apologies, Sir," he muttered, "I did not know you speak the language."

Quinn grinned and turned back to the ruined building that had drawn his attention. "What was this place?"

"Our school," the boy replied. "Americans bombed it when they thought Taliban pigs were hiding in it but there were never any Taliban here. We are Hazara!"

"Where I come from most kids would be glad if somebody bombed their school," Quinn said as he made a cursory inspection. "And they certainly wouldn't want a Kuffar coming to rebuild it." 

Carefully picking his way through the rocks the boy finally arrived at Quinn's side. He smirked at the older man's use of the insulting term to describe himself, the one that he had used only moments previously. "My father says we should all have the chance to go to school. My name is Mortaza."

"Quinn."

"Quinn?" repeated the boy. "Are you a Kuffar?"

"Would that be a problem?"

"My father says we should respect all men, except the Pashtoons, of course. Everyone hates the Pashtoons!"

"Your father seems to be a very wise man," Quinn noted.

Mortaza beamed proudly. "You will meet him soon. He has the very great honour of being selected by the Village Leader to help you with the mine clearance."

In Quinn's experience locals selected to help his team were not normally seen as having been given an honour at all. And unless they had steady hands and iron nerves they were in danger of quickly blowing themselves to bits; there was certainly no glory in that. Still he didn't like to dull the boy's obvious pride so he only nodded.

"Hey asshole!" A voice came from the jeeps. "What the fuck you doing fraternising with the locals? We got work to do!"

"Coming!" Quinn called back. He nodded to the boy. "See you around, kid."

Mortaza watched his long strides back down the hill. "You can count on it Kuffar-Quinn," he whispered.

As he reached the jeeps Quinn had the overwhelming yet disconcerting feeling that something special waited for him in Qarabatur, and he should hang around until he found it.

 

Year 6

When his team were finished and moved on, Quinn did not go with them. Instead he remained in Qarabatur, staying with Mortaza and his father, Daoud, in their smoky ramshackle hut on the edge of the village. He began work on the school almost immediately. It was hard unrelenting travail and some days were better than others. Sometimes the lethargy he remembered from those long days in the hospital seeped into his muscles and stole his strength, he could not bear the physical strain and he could not get out of the furs that served as his bed. On those days nobody cared, it was as if they had all the time in the world to complete their quest. Daoud would smile and say, "Tomorrow will be better," and prepare a strong cup of tea sweetened with honey that Quinn sipped gratefully. 

On other days Quinn prospered, his work rate truly phenomenal. Slowly but surely the building began to take shape, rising from the ruins.

Quinn found he had many of the skills he needed to build and it pleased him that he could use them to create something instead of using them to destroy. Daoud helped him tremendously. He turned out to be as wise as Mortaza boasted on the first day they had met, with unfailing energy and good humour, he became a true friend but he was also the most impractical and clumsy man Quinn had ever met. How he had survived the mine-clearing work, Quinn could not imagine. He bashed nails in wobbly, he broke intricately cut pieces of wood, he dropped heavy stones on his and other people's feet and worst of all his 'Oh that will do' attitude was completely at odds with Quinn's need, drummed into him from years in the military, for perfection. Still it was hard to be angry constantly with someone who accepted life with good grace and simply smiled in the face of misfortune.

And Mortaza too. During the first few weeks Quinn fashioned a wooden leg for the boy, who burst into tears the first time he managed to walk with it and was soon dashing about the village, a danger to anyone or anything that got in his way. Watching the boy blossom and drinking a share of the sheer enthusiasm for life Mortaza engendered, Quinn could not help but think of his own son, almost the same age as the young Hazara. Two boys on the very cusp of manhood. He wondered about him, what he looked like, what he did and amazingly, for one so guarded, he actually told Mortaza about him.

"Will your son come to visit?" Mortaza asked one night, as Quinn said goodnight to him and leaned over to blow out the candle. "What's his name again?"

"Johnny," Quinn replied, pulling back. "And no he never will."

Genuinely interested, and sensing a chance to keep bedtime at bay, Mortaza asked, "Why?"

Quinn tousled the mop of hair. "You ask too many questions!"

"And you don't answer enough!"

"Sleep!"

"When will the teachers come?"

"Another question! Go to sleep and who knows what will be revealed in the morning!"

Mortaza could be seen to pout as Quinn finally blew out the light and darkness descended. "Good night, Mortaza."

"Good night Kuffar-Quinn," a sleepy voice responded.

Daoud's face was troubled as Quinn returned to the flickering firelight in the main room. "He's right to ask, where will we find teachers? They all ran away last time when the bombs fell and none have ever come back."

Quinn snorted confidently. "Don't worry, I have a plan."

"You do? Good." Daoud looked unconvinced. He made a great show of trying to itch a scratch in an unreachable part of his back before fixing Quinn with his unblinking stare. "You shouldn't let him call you that," he said finally.

"What?"

"Kuffar-Quinn. It's derogatory, insulting. You deserve better."

Quinn shrugged. "It doesn't matter and it's kinda true. I don't believe in anything."

"That is a lonely place to be, my friend."

Quinn sighed softly. "I get by." 

"Get by, spoken like a true Hazara."

"What is it to be Hazara, would you explain it to me, Daoud?" Quinn had been on his own in the village for over a month now. He had witnessed the brutal life at first hand but he wanted to know more about the complex people he lived with.

"To be a Hazara?" Daoud said proudly, smiling grimly in the firelight, obviously pleased to be asked. "Hazaras have always had to stay on our toes to defend ourselves against our age old enemies, the Pashtoons. You can only know their hatred by living with them. They can never be trusted for it is in their blood to hate and kill us. Hazaras are peace loving people who happen to have fallen in the hands of the wrong, foolish majority. We are freedom lovers. The essence of Hazara identity is in our struggle against tyranny and oppression, for to die free is preferred over the life of slavery. Hazaras are the symbol of liberty for we have a love and strong conviction to freedom and justice. Being a Hazara is to have allegiance to the Truth."

He poked the fire silently for a few moments as if waiting for his patriotic passion to cool to a simmer before he continued more wistfully. "We have known great hardship, great suffering but we have always endured. We will always endure. Like millions of other Afghans, the people of Qarabatur abandoned our village when the Soviets invaded. As Shia Muslims, we chose not to flee to Pakistan, but to Iran, where we lived as refugees for two decades. I was only young but I remember life was good in Iran, we had houses, steady pay, food, heat and water. But it was not home and so when you, you Americans, invaded Afghanistan and the Northern Alliance forced the Taliban out of our homes, we packed our bags and returned. Zabihullah brought us here. Here is harder but here is home."

"Zabihullah is your brother?"

"Zabihullah is many things. He is my brother yes but first and foremost he is our Leader. He makes the decisions and sometimes, like all men, he is wrong but he does not like this."

"If you are family, why did he choose you to help clear the mines?"

"You ask as many questions as my son!" Daoud teased. "Did you have a little brother, American?" Quinn shook his head. "Then you will not understand. Little brothers are burdensome and limiting especially when they are better looking and more intelligent than you!" Daoud laughed but the mirth did not reach his dark eyes.

"I remind him of his failures; he does not like that. He said the mines were gone. He said the fields were safe and my beloved wife and precious only son proved with their fragile bodies they were not. Now he gets angry that I will not marry again, he thinks I mock him but my heart died the day I lost Elaha. It is dead, gone, I cannot give it again. And he sees my son crippled and broken and his sons strong and virile and the guilt clutches at him. I do not blame him. I would feel the same if it were me. Deep down he knows I want only one thing, a return to her arms and so he offers me it but, being a practical man, he will not give me up for nothing. Clearing the mines offered him a satisfactory solution to his problem." Daoud's grin was wry. "My son and I, we are the most expandable of the most oppressed and most mistreated people in Afghanistan, what can I do but laugh and go on until the day, Allah be praised, when Elaha and I are finally reunited?" 

Quinn chewed his lips, letting out a long, sad sigh. "You are a good man," he said. "Crap with a hammer but good in the ways that matter."

Daoud laughed. "No better than the next. And you, American, I see the truth in your eyes, you have taken many souls and truly loved only one." Quinn shuffled uncomfortably as Daoud continued. "And will rebuilding a school here clean the stain on your soul? Is that what you seek?"

"Maybe."

"How many good deeds outweigh one bad one? How do you atone for the indefensible?" Daoud shook his head sadly. "Only with love. You should go to her if you can."

Quinn tensed. "Go to her?"

"Carrie. She is your woman?" Quinn looked stunned but Daoud chuckled. "You call her name in your sleep. Your soul cries out for her. You will never find peace until you have her in your arms again. We are the same, like brothers, you and I, American and Hazara, our hearts will not rest until we find our women, Elaha and Carrie."

Quinn stood up. Fuck! He thought about her every single day! Suddenly the stark fire smoke stung his eyes as a feeling of panic rose in his gut. "I need a piss," he muttered.

"Of course, you do." Daoud chuckled as the other man rushed out of the room. "The truth always makes my bladder ache too!"

 

**********************************************************

They moved away from the convoy of dusty jeeps, leaving the soldiers in their nondescript combat Kevlar to stand guard, watchful and agitated, eyes hidden by dark glasses. Dar sniffed, pulled out a white handkerchief and blew his nose violently. "God I hate this dust, fucks my sinuses up every time. I'm an old man, I really don't need this shit!"

Quinn ignored his moans. "How is Carrie?" he asked.

Dar started with surprise. "You called me all this way, put me in intense physical discomfort, not to mention the risk of kidnapping by the bastard Taliban, and that's the first thing you ask me?"

Quinn snorted. "Spare me, Dar. We've known each other too long for bullshit!" 

Dar raised his eyebrows and muttered, "Touché!" He screwed up his nose distastefully. "You've changed your tune, donkeys and shit must agree with you."

"If I asked you to stop snooping on her, would you?"

"I told you before protocol dictates that with an officer with such a chequered past, a record of volatile and suspect behaviour, it is in the national interest to keep tabs on her."

"So, as you will never let her be free and you seem content to waste all that tax payers’ money on following her you might as well put it to some use. Is she OK?"

"Well, when I knew I was coming I must admit I did check the files and it seems that all is not well with Ms Mathison."

Quinn stopped, instantly drawn tight like a bowstring. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"You know she had another baby?" Dar stopped beside him, breathing deeply. Quinn shook his head. "Well, she did and it went about as well as last time. She's under a psychiatrist, on some mighty strong meds. My sources report she can just about make the early morning school run but she's invariably paralytic by ten o'clock. I guess 'struggling' would be a euphemistic term for it."

Quinn stood completely still except for the twitching of the muscle at the side of his jaw. Fuck he hated that muscle, it was always such a tell. He had tried so many times to control it but never succeeded. It was like all the swirling emotion he kept trapped inside had to escape somewhere and it chose his jaw muscle as its emergency exit. He stared out into the middle distance, not seeing the village or the mountains, not seeing anything. Finally, he said, "Hazaras are probably the most persecuted people on the planet."

Dar snorted, aware of the dramatic change in subject but not commenting on it, instead he chose to whinge further. He snapped, "I didn't come to bandit country to get a history lesson, Peter!"

Quinn chewed his blistered dry lips, still gazing into the distance. "It just shows that no matter how fucked you are, there is always somebody worse than you," he muttered softly.

"What do you want?" Dar was hot and uncomfortable and was beginning to wish he had not acted on the foolish whim to see his protégé again. He was beginning to think that Quinn really was unhinged; as crazy as Carrie Mathison.

Quinn brought his eyes back to fall on the sweating, grizzled man before him wafting the flies away impatiently. "Come with me," he commanded simply.

They walked up the dusty street. Women dressed in bright green and red floral dresses, their traditional garb, worn without the long under-trousers customary in Afghan culture but with heavy stockings instead, and fur-lined boots, beaded headgear and heavy, coin strung necklaces, regarded them as they passed. Young children playing with rocks in the dust looked up as did older kids unloading jugs filled with near freezing ice-melt water, from the backs of baleful donkeys, having just returned from the nearest clean well. All shared one characteristic in common, their veiled eyes looked out at the world with weary acceptance. As a people they had suffered, been pushed beyond endurance and the communal memory of the pain dulled the life from even the youngest eye.

Quinn stopped before a squat building that stood away from the others, higher up the hill. It was different from the sun-dried bricks plastered with mud which made up the living shelters. This was far more substantial, made of grey stone with a robust-looking roof of cut timber, the pleasant scent of which still wafted on the gentle breeze, and a row of perfectly built steps ran up to its door.

"What am I looking at here, Peter?" Dar asked his voice strained, trying to catch his breath after the steep climb.

Quinn sighed. "I made this," he said an unmistakeable hint of pride in his voice.

Dar raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You did? What is it?"

"Their school."

"You built it from scratch?"

"No. I just patched up the remains of the old one. The one that we destroyed years ago when we were chasing Taliban."

"Impressive, Peter. So why am I here?"

"It's an empty building. I've done all I can but you, you with your contacts can fill it. Find a charity, hell start your own, name it after yourself. I don't care just get teachers, books, every fucking thing they need."

"You're serious, aren't you?" There was a note of awe in Dar's voice.

"Deadly."

"And this is you calling in your favour? After this we are equal?" Quinn nodded. "And you will consider coming back?" Dar pushed.

"No, never that."

Dar drew in a long breath, looked around him at the neat village, the clean and precise and yet abjectly poor people who lived on the constant edge of disaster. He reached across and squeezed Quinn's shoulder. "I think I understand why you are here and I will do whatever it takes to make this a success."

Quinn nodded. "Thank you. Now let's eat. I have no donuts but maybe goat's cheese will suffice."

Dar pulled a disappointed scowl but replied gamely. "I'm sure it will."

 

Year 7

"The roads are clear!" Mortaza shouted excitedly through the chill morning air. The rhythmic tap of his wooden leg could be heard as he reached the timber steps at the entrance to the school. Seconds later he burst through the door, face bright as the chill early spring sun in the sky.

Quinn and Daoud looked up from the plans there were poring over. "Ssh Mortaza! You'll wake the dead!" chided his father but a smile curled his lips.

"I don't care!" enthused the boy, looking suddenly younger than his years as he overflowed with childish excitement. "The snows are gone; the roads are open! That means the teachers will be here soon, doesn't it, Kuffar-Quinn?"

Quinn too felt the contagious power of the boy's excitement. "Yes it does," he confirmed grinning.

Mortaza's smile broadened even further. "And the school will be open!"

"Yes, it will my son," Daoud agreed. "Now please we need to concentrate, these plans are complex. Go down and see if there are fresh eggs."

"Yes, Papa. And if the roads are open will we be able to barter with the merchants for tea and rice?"

"Yes, Mortaza we shall; not only will your brain be full of learning but your belly will be full of food too. Now please go!"

Daoud shook his head as the wild, unruly mess of joy that was his son, skidded back out again. He turned to look at Quinn. "He is a different boy since you came. You have made the light of joy shine in his eyes! Allah be praised!" They looked back at the plans but Daoud did not settle. Finally, he said, "And what of you, my friend, spring is here and soon the mountainside will explode with bursts of yellow, purple and red flowers. But I know you have stayed longer than you wanted, the snows held you here. Will you go home now?"

All the time he had been in Afghanistan, she had been at the end of every street, behind every bend, waiting for him, her face the last thing he saw at night and the first when he opened his eyes in the morning. And that had been all right, he could have lived with that, had even drawn strength from it, sustenance that had fed him, kept him going but then Dar had told him she was not happy, that she was struggling and the fragile crystalline peace he had constructed with himself had been shattered irrevocably. If she was not happy and he was not happy when they were apart then wouldn't it be better to be unhappy together? Daoud's words urging him to try again had put the idea into Quinn's mind but Dar's disclosure had made it suddenly more pressing. Still Quinn had ignored the urgency, dithered, afraid to make the choice and when he finally had decided the teeth-chattering snows had come and marooned him in the village until spring. Now it was possible once more.

Quinn drew in a long breath. "I am done here," he agreed. "Maybe I will."

"Papa! Papa!" Mortaza's voice came back into the room only seconds before he too returned, all animated exhilaration. "A man wants to see you."

"See me?" Daoud replied.

"No, not you, he wants the American."

Daoud and Quinn exchanged suddenly suspicious glances. "I will go," Daoud said. "And make sure all is well."

"Are you sure?" Quinn replied tensely.

Daoud's smile was wide. "I am Hazara," he said with confidence. "I will go." He stood and shuddered as the biting spring wind gusted through the door that Mortaza still held open. "That's a cold wind," he muttered.

Unthinking Quinn unhooked his flak jacket from the chair behind him. "Here take this." He threw it over the desk to the other man.

"Thank you, my friend," Daoud smiled. "This is indeed a most acceptable jacket. I wish you had been generous enough to loan it to me in the real winter snows!" he teased. Laughing he zipped up the collar so only his upper face and black hair was visible. He left the room at a spritely trot with QUINN emblazoned on the chest of the Kevlar jacket.

Quinn stood too. He moved around the desk to peer out of the slightly open doorway. He saw one man, head strangely bowed and body muffled in a massive coat waiting further down the uneven lane. A serpent of disquiet slithered in Quinn's bowels. His assassin-sense was suddenly alive and signalling danger. 

Not thinking of the consequences, he flung the door open, jumped the steps and charged after Daoud and Mortaza's retreating backs. "No!" he screamed.

The crisp, cold morning was shattered by the explosive folly of one man's hate. His selfish desire for martyrdom and paradise blew better souls to pieces as fire and calumny rained down on the patch in the centre of the dozing village he had chosen for his atrocity. Suddenly the air molecules were burning and all things within the radius of the detonated bomb were moving, spiralling crazily skyward, forcing outwards, blasting apart from everything else. The whole world was a chaos of ear-bursting, bone-crushing, skin-ripping, eviscerating movement as what was whole was torn apart and what was living was extinguished.

Then the upward motion stopped. Gravity caught the newly created specimens and pulled them back to the floor, to fall in strange, obscene parodies and pieces of their former gloriously perfect selves. To rest scarlet bloody pulp, white starched bones and black burning skin in the grey cloying dust. Motionless, lost, unrecognisable, dead.

And then all was silent. All was still. 

Only one single crow, sensing the metallic tang of blood on the air, landed inquisitively on the smooth steps of the new schoolhouse, and pierced the very stillness with his mournful cry. The call rose on the strengthening mountain wind and was carried away along with a colourless blanket of faithless ash; a lingering lament to lost souls.


	3. The Rose in Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Elina and Viv who refused point blank to let me write any other ending but this one (and believe me the original plan was very different!). 
> 
> The Rose in Bloom
> 
> "There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea  
> You became the light on the dark side of me  
> Love remained a drug that's the high and not the pill  
> But did you know that when it snows  
> My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen?  
> Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey  
> Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah  
> Now that your rose is in bloom  
> A light hits the gloom on the grey"  
> Seal - Kiss From A Rose

Year 8

Peter Quinn's birthday

 

It had been hard for Carrie since that awful day when she had her one remaining shred of hope ripped away. She had fallen into a deep pit of dark despair, been hospitalised and cried, cried a lot, cried until only dry, hopeless sobs remained. And they soon shuddered away to nothing as bottom was well and truly hit. It was then that she realised only two bleak options remained for her: she could give up completely and die, or she could put her life back together somehow and go on. When she looked at it with such clear simplicity there was only one true answer; Carrie had always been a fighter if nothing else, and she would continue the fight. She had to. 

And so, slowly, she began to reclaim her life and her sanity, taking the smallest of steps, leaning heavily on her doctors, her medication and Maggie. So that now, some eighteen months after that fateful day she was strong enough to be living a relatively normal, if lonely, life.

Jonas was gone. It had come as a strangely cathartic relief when, only days after suffering her tragic loss, stumbling around the house one night in search of drugs or alcohol or both, she had, instead, found him in bed with pretty, wide-eyed Lily. After the screaming and fighting had petered out, more shocked that he had actually finally found the balls to take action than the fact that he had betrayed her, they had come to an 'amicable' agreement - he could take Little Jonas and Lily and just fuck off. Frannie, of course, was staying with her mother.

It was a tough graft to find her way back up though, swimming through treacle, grinding her way so slowly upwards; she was so very lonely. Every night, once the door was shut on the outside world and Frannie was put to bed, the isolation hit her like a barrel bomb. At a time when she needed more than anything a life partner to share her hopes and fears, her insignificant triumphs and all those crazy little things that she just wanted to tell, there was no one. Her solitude was almost overwhelming, always dragging her back down.

It was difficult but Frannie was a sensible, intelligent young lady who helped Carrie no end. In short she was Carrie's soul reason to continue the fight. They argued a lot about bed time, internet time, about clothes, music and latterly about boys but when the arguing ran its course and important things were at stake, they were deeply devoted to each other. They spent most weekends down at Maggie's house and slowly, with people who knew and accepted her, Carrie found her smile, if not her laughter, once more.

There was one last thing, however, Carrie felt compelled to do. One thing that would put a ghost to rest, allow her to truly bury her dead and move on. So on this particular fall morning when the river mist fingered its way into every neighbourhood, blanketing all with an ominous shroud, she rose early, checked on Frannie who was sleeping peacefully and slipped out of the apartment. She had re-taken up jogging in the summer, glad of the physical punishment and the sweat and the loud jazz; it was her normal morning routine but on this solemn day there was no musical accompaniment and she carried a plastic tube with her.

Winter had fallen on the Big Apple. Unseasonably cold weather the previous week had resulted in a snow storm which had shocked everybody into prematurely resurrecting mothballed winter clothes from the back of their closets. Thankfully the storm had proved to be as short-lived as it was violent, however, piles of snow, no longer virginal white but stained and discoloured to grim grey by the dirty city, still lingered at the side of the streets, abandoned, left to melt away like a hopeless, homeless old man. And people worried about what such early snow foretold about the coming winter.

Instead of taking her usual route Carrie picked her way between the snow piles and jogged gently to the station, took a train to the Columbia University station at 116th Street and started jogging north. She passed by the school's Earl Hall with the magnolia and cherry trees, so beautiful when in bloom, now deformed and sinister shapes looming up at her through the particularly dense fog, ghostly sentries sending guard over a nightmarish world of colourless shadows. Pushing aside the rather childish fears that the landscape awoke in her, from there she went further north to 125th Street. Starting from way up above at street level, she skipped deftly down the breathtakingly steep stairs to the Cherry Walk along the river below where more statuesque cherry trees, more silent sentinels, stood at lonely attention in the foreboding greyness. At intervals along the way, stark street lights, made for aesthetic pleasure rather than robust function, tried in vain to keep the swirling fog at bay, their meagre yellow light dull like the eyes of dying animals.

"Shit!" Carrie cursed as somewhere close by a solitary owl, harbinger of death, hooted with soulful melancholy causing her to jump in surprise. Christ, she had been in infinitely more dangerous situations than this, the sarin threatened underground tunnels of Berlin and a Taliban hostage exchange in Pakistan came to mind. Why was she losing her shit at a little fog and an owl? She was so out of practice.

Frannie and Carrie had come along the Cherry Walk regularly for a Sunday morning stroll during the past twelve months, and had seen the beautiful park in the glory of spring blossom and the frigid monochrome fragility of a winter's day but she had never seen it quite as chilling as on this foggy morning. It was a rugged, sepia landscape, permeated by the twisting, gnarled hulks of trees rising up at her, haunting and unfamiliar as if old ghosts untethered to human bodies where free at last to roam and this was their eerie gathering place. Life here had been smothered, muffled by the blanket of fog; living souls were not welcome.

Carrie shivered at the appropriateness of the atmosphere, tiny needle pricks running along her back as the sense of being watched almost overwhelmed her. She gripped the tube to her chest and pushed on, amazed anew at how distance seemed to be elongated and how easily fear could be kindled in even the most courageous heart in the swirling smoky mists.

Finally, she got to the place she sought and carefully picked her way down to the water's edge. The Hudson River smelt of mud and salt, damp and bitterness, flaring the nostrils sharply as it blindly followed its urge to reach the ocean. 

Tears flooded into Carrie's eyes so that the already murky scene lurched out of focus, she bit her lip, tasted blood but could not stop her chin from beginning to wobble. She sniffed back the tears, wiped her eyes impatiently, delicately removed the rose from the plastic tubing, kissed it longingly and then threw the bloom out into the current. It swirled in a circle of ripples where it landed on the water, went under and righted itself, to gently float away, out of her vision as the gloom swallowed it.

"I loved you too, Quinn," she called after it, voice breaking, gulping for air.

"I'm fucking glad to hear it!" Came a familiar voice from back up on the pathway.

Carrie started and turned to see a dark figure standing watching her. "What the fuck?" she muttered, scrabbling to get back up to the sidewalk.

A woman who had suffered more than her fair share of hallucinations of old lovers, Carrie was nevertheless shocked to see him and expected him to fade into the mists as she neared. She was even more amazed when the hand he reached out to help her up was as real and corporeal as any she had ever felt.

Relief overran rational thought as her heart swelled in her chest. "Oh, thank God," she whispered and threw herself at him. As if ready for her response he caught her, pulled her close, holding her tightly to him. 

Finally, she pulled away, sniffing. "What the fuck, Quinn? One fucking rose once a year? You think that's sufficient!" She was suddenly the embodiment of indignant hurt, slapping at him with tiny hands balled into fists. "And then nothing for years. For eighteen fucking months I've mourned you!"

He remained silent, still, let her hit him, face closed, absorbing the blows, accepting as if he deserved them, waiting. He had read the situation correctly, she was more an upset kitten than a destructive hurricane, all ineffective emotion and no power, and she soon blew herself out.

When she was done, Quinn cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

She stared at him, face red, eyes swollen, fists still clenched, anger lingering in her bones but being overtaken fast by something else, the thing that made Carrie function, the need to understand. "But the suicide bomber? I thought... Dar said...." she began puzzled.

Quinn nodded, face taunt in the gloom. "Dar needs to continue to believe what he believes until we are safe. The bomber took two brave souls with him, both better than mine. My friends. They deserve places in their paradise." He looked away as if seeing a memory in the murkiness. Then he looked back at her. "One of them just happened to be wearing my Kevlar jacket at the time he got blown to bits."

Carrie raked her hand through her hair neurotically. "You faked your own death?"

"Took advantage of the tragic circumstances." His voice was calm, emotionless but the muscle at the side of his jaw flexed mournfully. "It was never the plan."

"But why?"

He hesitated, looked away. "You're not free, Carrie. The Agency have had a man on you since you left."

Carrie scoffed. "That's ridiculous. It's a phenomenal waste of manpower for one thing..."

"Come with me." Quinn impatiently cut her off.

Hesitatingly she followed him across the grass, wet and clingy in the damp atmosphere, to where a crumpled figure lay in the dirt beside the path. "Did you...?" she asked hesitantly.

"I drugged him, " Quinn responded dully. "I don't kill people any more. But it doesn't give us much time. Do you still have an exit plan?"

"Well, yeah but it's a little rusty. Why?"

He had that look on his face that she remembered from the long ago night of her father's wake, so hopeful, so vulnerable, so......could it really be so in love, after all this time? "I know why you're looking at me like that, Quinn," she said purposefully.

He lifted his eyebrows, the same question hanging between them, unspoken, after all the years. He hesitated, jaw twitching. "I'm done running away, twice I've sort of asked you, well, this is the third and this is the last time I am going to ask."

"Jesus, Quinn, we'll kill each other!"

"I've learned better that than to die alone," he countered sincerely.

"Jesus, you're serious!"

"You just told the Hudson River you loved me."

"Don't take the fucking romantic high ground with me! You had to write a goddamn letter to tell me how you felt!"

To her surprise his face cracked into a sheepish grin. "But we always find each other," he said, a hint of his cocksure swagger returning. A substantial silence hung, palpable, between them until Quinn muttered, “Jesus, we're so fucked up!" Shaking his head wryly, glancing down at his boots, shuffling his feet and then he looked up and did something amazing.

He laughed. 

He actually fucking laughed. Carrie stood dumbfounded staring at him. "Quinn, you're laughing, no, you're actually chuckling! For Christ sake!" She said as if verbalising the words would make her understand better.

"I know. Feels good."

The drugged CIA man beside them on the ground, groaned. "Shit," Quinn cursed, losing his laughter instantly. He fumbled in his pocket, took out a syringe and then bent beside the man.

"What are you doing?" Carrie questioned.

"I thought this would be over quicker. Need to keep him asleep. Then we can go."

Carrie eyed him as he stood up. "You're making a pretty big assumption, aren't you?" she said.

He gulped, his face hardening to granite, swagger fading. He licked his lips nervously, said nothing but she could feel the apprehension sparking off him. Was his earlier confidence just bravado? Was his brittle faith so easily cracked? Was he so afraid that she would say no? She couldn't help herself with him, even here she couldn't give him an easy ride. So, taking history into account and her current attitude, he did have every right to think she would answer negatively. But this time he was wrong. She made the decision in a heartbeat, it wasn't hard, hadn't she been dreaming of this for years? 

"Frannie," she said, strategic mind whirring into action, moving on, pushing aside emotion. "I will not leave her this time."

He nodded, gulped, his own mind processing what her words meant, the answer she didn't say to the question he hadn't asked. "You have to go home anyway." She felt his hungry eyes run up and down her sweaty, lycra-clad body. "You're hardly dressed for travelling."

She shivered under his gaze, her mouth went dry but she valiantly tried to stay on track. "Wait. Why now? It's been eighteen months! You have no idea what I've fucking been through. I....."

He reached out and gently took hold of her shoulders as they threatened to cave inward in a furious frustrated sob. He bent forward so their eyes were level and he pulled her toward him, enveloped her in an overwhelming embrace. And then, for only the second time ever, he kissed her, a kiss that came from the bottom of his soul, fuelled by years of wanting, desperation and suffering. His mouth raw and wet, Carrie accepted him willingly, her whole body throbbing at his touch. Their kiss deepened as Quinn's tongue hesitantly probed Carrie's lips, her breath hitched and she thrust her hands into his hair.

She allowed him the dominance, running her hands down across his back and bending her body forwards to accommodate him. Opening her mouth wider, she sucked in his tongue as she felt his body shiver with desire. He moaned as he crushed her against him, his lips hot and demanding. She knew he would have taken her if she let him, on the misty walkway at the side of the river, among imaginary ghouls and spirits in the nightmarish fog, his carefully controlled need and natural caution, all those years of restraint, smashed away by the torrent of passion that came from deep within him. 

His eyes were shut and he moaned softly as his hands fought the clinging Lycra of her garments behind her back trying to find the fastenings. He moved down from her mouth and began to tease her nipple through the thin fabric, biting and sucking and she felt his hardness pressing into her. 

She pulled away.

He looked up, eyes sheened by passion widening still further in surprise quickly followed by despair. She knew the memory of the last time and the tragic way it had ended, branded deep into his nightmares, was coming back to haunt him. She would have spared him if she could but here was not the place, one of them had to remain practical. 

He was gasping for breath, his face flushed and his lips full and ripe before her, still moist from her own. "Not here, Quinn," she hissed. "You said yourself we didn't have much time. But soon."

She regarded him then, really saw him, drinking him in with a thirst ten years in the making. She had always thought of him as a fire, smouldering white hot and suddenly bursting into flame when his fury was aroused but she saw the change in him now. The anger had burnt out of him and left something deeper, stronger, more dependable. He was like the sea, restless and uncompromising, unruffled as though not a breath of wind stirred the surface but in the hidden depths below there heaved a grand unstoppable majestic motion. He had told her when they first met that he was reliable, now she finally saw the power that held sway over him. He loved her, he loved her still after all the soul-sapping scenes and depressing dramas that had tragically played out since they had last met. He would always love her, every part of her, and she finally understood exactly what that meant.

She was so full of thundering feelings she feared she would burst; happy, relieved, scared, aroused and thankful for this beautiful, complex man before her. Knowing they should leave, but she longed for his touch so much she could not and instead stepped into his embrace again. Something clicked; it was as if he somehow filled all of the places where she had gaping holes, where she was lacking, so they fit together, all of their sharp edges smoothed by the other, perfectly, like a favourite puzzle. She fitted there like nowhere else and she wanted to stay in the safety of those strong arms forever. "We will always find each other," she breathed thankfully.

He gulped, moved away, trying to come back to his senses, pulling himself together before her eyes, unwilling to let her go but knowing he must. "We have to go," his voice was deep, enriched by passion.

She nodded. Very slowly, nervously, eyes never leaving hers, like a teenage kid on his first date, he put out his hand towards her. She smiled, intrigued anew by the swirling maelstrom of contradiction that was Peter Quinn, and accepted his boyish gesture. Hand in hand they headed back towards the steps as the fog began to lift, the lights of the city finally pierced the grey gloom and a new day was begun.

 

Year 9

Christ it was all spiralling out of control! 

Dar threw himself into his office chair with a thump. The meeting with the President should have been routine. Why in hell did the blasted woman have to ask such astute questions? Dar sat back, forced his breathing to slow in the hope his struggling heart would do likewise. Why couldn't it be like the old days?

A knock at the door and William, his secretary, poked his pretty head in. "Coffee, Sir?" he asked.

"Stronger!" Dar breathed out weakly.

William's handsome, girlish face brightened into a smile as he winked. "Scotch?"

"Definitely!" Sod the new rules, no alcohol on the premises. Fucking do-gooders! His liver was of no concern to anyone except himself and they should try doing a job like his sober!

William eased into the room, lithe young body bursting out of the conservative pin stripe suit he was wearing today, contrasted with a shocking pink tie and perfectly folded handkerchief in his top pocket, elegant coiffured blonde hair just the right length to fall coquettishly into his wide blue eyes. He was all sexual pheromones with hints of peppermint mouthwash and hand cream. Dar tried really hard not to hate him, tried to focus on the case in hand but the melancholy funk would not leave him.

"Remind me why I haven't retired yet, Will," Dar said forlornly.

As he opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, liberated the bottle there and a glass, and poured the rich golden liquid, Will smiled. "Because the world would go to shit without you, Sir!"

"Of course. How could I forget!" The peaty smell of the Scotch drifted on the gentle breeze stoked by the air conditioning system, bringing visions of mountains, mist and merriment to Dar's jaded brain. "Have one yourself," he said as Will passed the glass over and the scent increased to inspire a jagged root of desire for the Highlands to clutch at the old man.

Will smiled, "I normally limit my hard liquor drinking to after nine thirty in the morning but thank you anyway, Sir."

"Is that all it is? Christ I thought I'd been roasted by the dragon for hours!"

"Nowhere near your longest meeting with her, Sir; only twenty two minutes and fifteen seconds, to be precise. And I thought you agreed not to call her that."

Dar shook his head. "The world hates a clever dick, Will."

"I'll bear that in mind, Sir. Would you like your post now?"

"Post? Does that still exist? I thought I had to 'ping' everything nowadays." Dar closed his eyes and for a second thought he heard the swirl of the pipes as the hot liquid burned down into his belly. Shit, there must be some Scottish blood in me, he thought enviously.

"Ordinarily that is true, Sir. But today, being a special day, you appear to have post."

"A special day?"

Will nodded. "It is your birthday, isn't it?"

Dar glanced at the calendar on the screen before him. He shook his head. "Christ I gave them up before you were born!" His voice sounded as weary as he felt but then a pin of curiosity pricked at him. "And how would you know that? You haven't been hacking into HR's files again after the last time, have you?" He fixed Will with his most intense stare, the one that in his prime had caused terrorists to piss themselves and even the hardest black ops guys to quiver. 

To his credit Will blanched and gulped. Still hadn't lost the gift then! "Of course not, Sir. That was all a mistake, a misunderstanding." The young man refused to make eye contact as his Adam's apple jumped nervously.

Dar snorted. "How do you know, then?"

Will's dreamy blue eyes came back to rest on his, sparkling mischievously. "I'll get the post!"

Dar shook his head, closed his eyes and took another long sip of the whisky. Maybe he should just give up, let the world go to shit. Go and find a bothy in the Highlands, drink himself senseless on the best Scotch. Who was he kidding that he could save anything anyway? Almost sixty fucking years of trying had got him precisely nowhere. And he had lost too much in the meantime, wife, kids, lovers, colleagues. A vicelike hand of intense loneliness squeezed at his guts uncomfortably.

"Here we are, Sir!" William's voice pulled him back from the abyss, as it did regularly nowadays. 

Intrigued, Dar opened his eyes and leaned forward with interest, his heart suddenly pumping again with the fury of a teenage athlete. William had placed a garishly decorated cardboard box on the desk in front of him. Dar recognised the colours and motif. "Donuts?" he exclaimed. "Somebody knows me well. Is this from you, Will?"

"Most definitely not, Sir. Because, this...." He brought his hand from behind his back with a dramatic flourish to reveal a plastic tube, tied with a red ribbon, containing a perfect red rose along with a simple card 'Happy Birthday' typed mysteriously but anonymously on its inside. "You're not my sort, Sir," Will said rolling his eyes flirtatiously, "But you obviously have a secret admirer!"

"Give me that!" Dar snatched the tube away from Will's startled hand. "And get the fuck out!"

"But...."

"Now!"

Will scurried out, his tail most firmly jammed between his legs and a hurt pout on his pink lips. Dar had forgotten him already, he was staring from the donuts to the rose and back again.

"Fuck me!" he murmured. 

He stood up and moved to refill his whisky, hands shaking slightly. Thoughts bombarded his mind. This was unexpected. He had given up hope after the awful news from Afghanistan. He had organised the repatriation of the body, or what was left of it, spoken at the memorial service at Langley when they had unveiled his star, had even pulled the strings to get his protégé recognised when technically he shouldn't have been. Dar had suffered, had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that his immortal soldier, his flawed warrior, was really gone. He had contemplated quitting, just walking away but had realised with a dull sense of loss that he had nothing to walk away to. He had seen, right at that moment, for all of his impossible dreams, half-hearted fabrications, he would never leave, he would die, probably in this goddamn office, because this was all he had. He had lost everything else that had ever been important to him.

But his boy was alive! Oh, the thought had crossed his mind when Mathison and her kid had disappeared without trace the previous fall, he made enquiries but could find nothing. But now it had to be true! Nobody else would send donuts and a rose. Nobody else knew the significance. He had to find him. Had to talk with him. Had to bring him back. Plans, actions began to take shape in Dar's swirling mind, jostling for attention, each refining itself and adapting. The weight of them all forced him down, forced him to stagger back to his chair and fall back into it, his mind reeling. Chaos threatening to overwhelm him.

And then he stopped it all. Silenced the voices screaming at him. Shut down all the plans. Switched off his thinking brain entirely. Closed it down until his mind was full of only one vision: familiar spiky hair, sharp cheekbones, spasming jaw muscle, tight infrequent smile and penetrating blue eyes.

Dar lifted his glass in salute. "Peter fucking Quinn!" he toasted solemnly and then he reached across and helped himself to a donut with chocolate oozing along its top - his favourite kind.


End file.
